


Sleepy

by panickedbee



Series: Sherlock Holmes Is A Very Lucky Man [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panickedbee/pseuds/panickedbee
Summary: Sherlock takes a long breath, takes in John’s body, smelling him and reducing his racing thoughts to simple words, to thoughts of comfort, of softness, of homecoming.





	

It was rare that Sherlock and John would go to bed at the same time. Sherlock doesn’t sleep much in general and, according to him, John does so far too much and far too long. John is often tired from work or from running after potential murderers. Sometimes both of those activities on the same day. (An odd couple needs an odd hobby.)

On those days he has little use for Sherlock in their bedroom. (Well, to be fair, there are quite a lot of things with which Sherlock could be useful to him there, _particularly_ after a solved case when they are worked up, adrenaline still rushing through their veins…) But it is no use trying to fall asleep in the same bed as him when Sherlock isn’t close to passing out due to lack of sleep. His mind is always too occupied, still too wide awake whenever John wants to just close his eyes and be dead to the world. He feels sorry for him sometimes, for the spinning wheels in his head that wouldn’t make his inner voice shut up. But that doesn’t change the fact that he cannot use a restless, lanky Sherlock Holmes next to him.

John is a man who is easily woke. Soldier reflexes. If you spent years of your life falling asleep in a war zone, well knowing that any moment of abstraction could kill you, it’s not something that wears off easily. The war is far away from him now. The memories rarely are. But he has learned to be grateful for the little things he could take from it.

Today is such a day, a long one, and when John announces he is going to turn in for bed, he is very aware that Sherlock’s day would still go on for much longer. He walks around the table to pick up his goodnight kiss from Sherlock’s soft lips, getting him to look up from his microscope for the first time in two hours probably. At least John Watson’s mouth provides a good enough reason for him to do so now. (On some days that still amazes, no, utterly _flashes_ him.)

And even though John climbs in the double bed on his own, he feels happiness stretching a smile across his face. He knows he will fall asleep twice tonight.

Some hours later, far too late into the night, another body quite literally falls down next to him. John wakes, blinking and surprised to find the world still veiled in darkness. But surprise fades so quickly once his body senses the heat of another person, once his ears register the deep and long sigh coming from the most beautiful voice that he has ever heard, and he closes his eyes again with a warm smile on his lips. Mere seconds later, a pair of long arms wraps around his body and Sherlock shifts closer until there is no more space left between them.

Sherlock’s warm torso presses against his back, and he can feel hard muscle through two thin layers of clothing. His cold nose tickles the skin behind his ear. Sherlock takes a long breath, takes in John’s body, smelling him and reducing his racing thoughts to simple words, to thoughts of comfort, of softness, of homecoming. John feels how his limbs lose the tension that conserves the masses of energy that Sherlock forces himself to bear at all times. For now he is giving himself a rest.

“Solved it?” John asks in a quiet murmur.

“Hmmh.”

The answer comes in a rumble that vibrates through his whole body. That should be the only thing that will be heard of him for the rest of the night.

But sometimes (especially after the difficult cases, the hopeless ones that take all day and night) they don’t go to bed separately. Sherlock becomes so enormously needy then, his body craving and yearning for all the things that he has previously neglected. There is a lot of snogging in those nights, a lot of groping and hard pulling on clothes in inappropriate places (apologies to Mrs Hudson who just wanted to bring out the trash and did not have to see this), but too often Sherlock’s lids will grow too heavy to keep them open, or his limbs will become too weak to remember the signals his brain has given them. (Once this ended with John having a curly-haired detective fall asleep in his lap with his jeans half-opened; an adoring but frustrating sight.)

Occasionally Sherlock doesn’t even let John change before he is on him, longingly rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of his jumper. John lets out a wholehearted chuckle. _When a forty year old man acts just like a cat_ , he thinks.

“I thought you didn’t like my jumpers?”

Sherlock’s groan is so full of overdramatic impatience (like the ones he usually spares for slow-minded idiots) that it makes John laugh again.

“Who was it that told you this outrageous lie, John?”

“You. Actually.”

He let out a snort. “We all have done things we’re not proud of.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Well, that makes you attracted to idiocy then, doesn’t it?” Sherlock mumbles into his jumper.

“I’m more than fine with that.”

“Let’s have sex.”

John grins, stretching out his arm to let his fingers sink into the dark mop of curls on top of him.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

John’s grin broadens at the thought that this is something they can do now, something he has the privilege to promise him. That they have made it this far. That they could love and take and have and _be with each other_ now. Now and finally and for the rest of their lives.

“Definitely tomorrow.”


End file.
